Juxtaposition
by prone2dementia
Summary: BEING REWRITTEN. De-aged to ten and sent back to Tom Riddle's era, Harry unintentionally befriends the eleven-year-old Dark Lord. The future will never be the same again... not DH compliant, no pairings.
1. Chapter 1

_Notes: no pairings, semi-HBP compliant, BEING REWRITTEN. Thank you for the patience. __Also, beta'd by imadoodlenoodle, who's a dear for sticking with me and being ever helpful; and Brackets, who's invaluable for kicking my butt. Many thanks to both!_

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Juxtaposition

Chapter One

They were at war.

Through the heat of a dozen duels, Harry caught sight of Bellatrix prowling up behind the twins. Her grin was bloodthirsty. He sprinted after her but was too slow. The red of her spell lit up her target, and he watched in horror as Fred Weasley collapsed to the floor, screaming and writhing blindly. Crucioed. At once, his brother was kneeling beside him, but a moment later George was mowed down too.

Harry's wand was aloft before he realized it.

"_Sectumsempra!"_

Bellatrix twisted away, a flash of purple illuminating her surprise. It was replaced by amusement when she caught sight of Harry.

"Why, it's little Harry Potter." She tossed her head, her manner extravagant and drunken, the ragged curls coiling atop her head like snakes. "Using the Sectumsempra, Potter? How '_dark' _of you."

She clapped her hands, gleeful and mocking, and Harry felt a bone-deep exhaustion well up inside himself. He was so sick of the fighting, the pain, the constant worry that someone he cared for might be hurt. He was sick with the stench of death. The battle had raged since morning, and he wanted nothing more than to see its end.

Bellatrix was laughing now, stalking forward as he backed away cautiously. Above him, wayward spells sailed left and right, prickling his skin with the buzz of magic. He knew she was forcing him into the middle of the fight, but to what end, he had yet to discover.

She didn't speak again until he was surrounded on all sides by Death Eaters, their wands readied but not poised to attack. "You know, Potter, as we _all _know, that you would have been a wonderful addition to the Dark Lord's forces."

The words were a slap.

"_What?" _He clutched his wand fiercely, his knuckles turning white from the force of his restraint.

"Don't—play—_dumb." _She punctuated each word with a jab of her wand. "We all know you're denying your true nature. You play the part of the Golden Boy, but I haven't forgotten last May, Potter. You used the Cruciatus, don't you remember?"

At that, a ripple of unease traveled through the assembled crowd. Harry gripped his wand even harder, staying silent.

"It's a pity you never realized your true potential. You would have been amongst the greatest of Slytherins." She laughed again. "But it's much too late now."

Her eyes slid beyond Harry, and he whipped around. Behind him, the people had scattered, providing a clear view to the crumbling fountain.

A figure loomed before it.

Harry's stomach sank.

"Potter," said Voldemort, smiling, twirling his wand casually, "you're a fool if you still believe you can win."

The Dark Lord gestured to the countless bodies littering the floor. They were broken dolls, bloodied and torn. A lump rose in Harry's throat. He knew Voldemort was right. Today had been a mistake; the battle was already lost.

Voldemort raised his yew wand.

"Allow me to take care of your comrades," said the Dark Lord, and the irony was not lost on Harry as a web of light flew through the atrium, ensnaring every one of Voldemort's opponents. Harry watched in horror as Ginny, closest to him, choked under her bonds, struggling. The Death Eaters swarmed in the interim, forming a ring around the standoff.

"Now we can have a proper duel." Voldemort's voice was soft, his eyes glittering dangerously.

"And then?" asked Harry. He was surprised by the strength in his voice.

"Then, once I undoubtedly win, I will establish a new order. All those who have opposed me today will be killed."

Harry's chest constricted, his heart thudding painfully. He couldn't let so many people die because of him, but at the same time, he knew there was no way for him to win. The last of Voldemort's Horcruxes had yet to be destroyed.

"You have another option, of course," Voldemort offered with a sharp grin, sensing Harry's dilemma. "You can surrender, and I shall show leniency to your comrades."

It was a lie, a teasing offer that Voldemort didn't expect him to accept.

"I'm not a fool," said Harry, too bold as always. "You'd never honor your promise."

Voldemort's eyes flashed. "Do not throw stones, Potter, unless you wish to arm your opponent." In the ensuing silence, the room's tension mounted. Voldemort continued in little more than a whisper. "Nevertheless, I have my own reasons to keep these fighters alive. They could prove _useful."_

Harry gritted his teeth, fighting the tide of outrage he felt at the way Voldemort spoke of Harry's friends as though they weren't human, merely objects to further a goal.

"So how do you respond, Potter? Do you choose to surrender? Or to fight?" _Either way, you _will _die._

Harry smiled without humor. There was no choice, really. He couldn't win, and if there was the slightest chance that he could save the others from their gruesome deaths, he'd take it. He guessed, wryly, that perhaps he'd inherited a penchant for martyrdom from his mother. Every gaze was on him as his fingers uncurled. His wand dropped to the ground with an unceremonious clatter.

Voldemort laughed, triumphant. "You choose to surrender, do you?"

He waved his wand, and Harry flinched before forcing himself to still. A moment later, his limbs were snapped taut, immobilized.

"It's done." Voldemort surveyed the atrium, sneering. His voice echoed over the crowd. "Harry Potter, your Savior, was never more than a foolish boy." Disdainful, he turned to Harry. "Let me teach you a lesson for defying me, Potter."

It was all Harry could do to keep breathing. He sensed what was coming next, and from the stifled gasps around him, it seemed his friends did too.

"_Avada Kedavra!"_

When the spell hit, everything went black.

. . .

Harry awakened, aching and disoriented. The air was sterile, stifled, the world around him blurred. He didn't know where he was. For a fleeting moment, he hoped he'd returned to Hogwart's Hospital Wing. Then his memories returned in a sudden rush: the Ministry, the battle, Voldemort. He buckled under their weight. How had he managed to escape death again?

He sat up slowly, groping for his glasses, and heard a voice exclaim, "You're awake!"

Startled, he jerked his arm back to rest on the bed. In front of him stood a man in a white coat, his concerned expression growing clearer as he neared.

"How are you feeling?" asked the man. Harry assumed he was a doctor.

"Tired, but otherwise fine, sir," Harry replied uncertainly. His voice sounded strange to his ears, pitched higher than he remembered. But if the doctor thought anything of it, he gave no hint.

"Good, good! What's your name, son?"

At the question, Harry's insides churned. If the man didn't know him, then he was certainly in Muggle territory. That left the question of where he was, exactly, and how he had gotten there.

"Harry," he said.

"Surname?"

"P—" He stopped. It would be stupid to reveal his identity when he didn't even know where he was. "Pennington," he finished after a beat, plucking the name from an old book he'd read for DADA. If he remembered correctly, the Penningtons were a Slytherin line that had died out long ago.

The doctor jotted down the name on a clipboard. When he finished, he cleared his throat. "All right, Harry, I'm Dr. Richards. You're in the Children's Ward of the Royal London Hospital, and you've been unconscious since they brought you in a week ago."

Harry stared at the man, incredulous, his mind whirling rapidly. He'd been in the hospital for a week. Anything could have happened in a week—a week he'd spent in the Children's Ward—and suddenly he felt too old to be called a child.

"It's August eighteenth, if you were wondering."

"August?" he echoed faintly. His head spun. It'd been July, the Ministry battle just days before his birthday.

"Right," confirmed the doctor, studying Harry curiously. "August eighteenth, nineteen thirty-eight. That surprises you?"

Harry felt the air knocked out of him. Surprised wasn't the right word. Blindsided, maybe. He sat frozen in disbelief, the doctor's words loud in his ears, audible even over his thundering heart. _Was this a cruel joke_, he wondered, _a dream?_

This was impossible.

"Harry?" The voice seemed to come from far away. Harry forced himself to focus. "Does that surprise you?"

Harry swallowed, taking a sharp breath, and nodded.

Dr. Richards set down his clipboard with a castanet clack, folding his hands thoughtfully. "Do you recall any recent accidents? Injuries?"

What could Harry say? He couldn't tell the truth. "No, nothing, sir."

"What's the last thing you remember?"

The despair on his friends' faces, the green of the Killing Curse burned into the back of his eyelids. "I—I don't..."

"You don't remember? Anything?" the doctor asked, his forehead crinkled. Harry blinked, processing the words, and realized they were his way out. If he pretended not to remember his past, he wouldn't have to recall it.

"Yes." It was the first firm word he had uttered since waking. "I don't remember anything."

"This is unusual," admitted the doctor, who picked up his clipboard briskly to scribble down a note, "but not unheard of. The nurse will need to give you some tests."

Tests? Harry felt abruptly overwhelmed. Everything was happening too fast. He needed time to think, to breathe.

He asked to use the toilet first. When he made to slide off the bed, the doctor reached out a steadying hand.

"Harry, are you nearsighted?" Apparently, he'd noticed the boy's squint.

Harry said he was, and Dr. Richards noted it on his chart.

Walking to the bathroom felt odd to Harry. The floor was smooth under his feet, the doorknob cool in his grasp, but something about the experience seemed distinctly _wrong_. He pushed open the door, taking a tentative step inside, and gasped. He stepped forward, then stepped forward again, and was soon so close to the mirror that his breath fogged up the glass. Numb, he pressed his hands gingerly over his features, dazed with disbelief.

The mirror reflected a face he hadn't seen in six years. Watching his reflection avidly, he traced his trembling fingers over his features and found both to be smaller and younger than he remembered. Yet his eyes were as green as ever, and the angry scar still marred his forehead. He was still Harry Potter, but he wasn't sixteen.

He was eleven.

He turned on the faucet shakily and splashed the stream of water onto his face, bracing himself. It was cold, temporarily blinding, but when he blinked away the droplets, his appearance remained unchanged. Taking a deep, steadying breath, he turned off the water and backed away. He was being silly. Washing his face wouldn't wash away the youth. He finished quickly and returned outside. There, the doctor was waiting for him, conversing animatedly with a nurse. They both looked up at his entrance, and Dr. Richards made introductions.

"Harry, this is Nurse Shelley. She will be conducting your tests today."

Nurse Shelley was thin, overwrought and pale. Her blonde hair was streaked with gray strands, and she toyed with them constantly as she led Harry through the wing and into a small room. A scale awaited them, along with a simple bed and a table of instruments. Harry submitted to the measurements she took, and it wasn't long before she left. The optician arrived next, shuttling him to another room with a letter chart on the wall. When Harry failed to read the fourth line, the optician clucked about the poor state of his eyes.

"Well, we'll send you the glasses in a week's time," he said. "You'll just have to make do for now."

Harry was taken to a small dining hall afterward. It was dingy but clean, with little chairs at little tables. It was an odd hour between lunch and dinner, silence weighing heavily on the room. Harry barely noticed. His mind was entirely elsewhere.

He recalled the battle, the Killing Curse. He recalled surrendering, felt sick.

In fifth year, he had been tricked into believing a lie. It had cost Sirius' life.

This, here and now, could be a lie also.

As much as it went against the Gryffindor grain, he resolved not to be reckless. He'd watch carefully until he knew what was going on. There had to be wizards here—Dumbledore, even—but he was wary of trusting too easily.

This could be a lie.

"Hello?"

While Harry had been embroiled in his internal debate, a man had approached him. Harry turned around, looking up, and felt his jaw slacken.

The man had mussed black hair and hazel eyes. Judging by the laugh lines around them, he was in his early fifties. He looked like an older version of James Potter.

The man's reaction to Harry was similarly shocked, his eyes widened in a stare, but he recovered quickly. "Hello," he said again, "Harry, right? Dr. Richards asked me to speak to you. I'm a mind healer—a psychiatrist, I mean. My name is Charles Potter."

Harry's heart gave an extra hard thud. His lungs seemed to threaten to give. He shook the proffered hand feebly, wondering if Charles' name and appearance could be a coincidence. It didn't seem likely.

"Pardon my staring," Charles was saying. "It's just that you look quite like my own son. But he's an adult now, married and contributing to society."

He winked good-naturedly, and Harry felt his lips pull into a weak smile. He didn't know what to say, so he stayed quiet.

Charles glossed over the silence easily. "As I was saying, I'm here because Dr. Richards believes you have amnesia. I don't know much about the situation, I'm afraid, but I'm hoping you can help me out. I understand that you can remember your name?"

"I—yes."

"Can you remember any others? Ones that sound familiar?"

Harry shook his head.

"Places? Do you know if you're from London?"

Harry shook his head again. "I'm sorry."

"No, no, don't be sorry." Charles hummed thoughtfully, rubbing his chin. "Let's assume that you are, for now." He took out a pen and a small pad of paper from his jacket, beginning a list of street names. "Tell me if any of these stand out to you in particular."

Harry said that none of them did.

"Well, probably not a Londoner, then." Charles didn't appear deterred. "How about major events. Do you remember any?"

"What do you mean?"

"For example, when did the Great War happen?"

Harry wasn't sure if answering would be good or bad. "Nineteen-fourteen through nineteen-eighteen?"

"That's right!" Potter beamed, apparently glad for the small breakthrough.

Over the next half hour, Charles asked a wide array of questions. The more personal they became, the harder it was for Harry to lie. He suspected some of his answers were inconsistent, but with no way of knowing the other's thoughts, he couldn't be sure. He didn't know how much to give away. Charles was unwaveringly patient, kind, and Harry felt an affinity to him. When Charles asked if Harry had ever caused anything strange—"as if by magic," the man said—Harry nearly confessed his secret. He had to force himself to deny it, though, because related or not, he couldn't trust Charles.

At the end of their session, the man stood, offering his hand again for Harry to shake. It was then that Harry realized his fists had been clenched the entire time, his nails leaving half-moon indents just below his knuckles. He hoped Charles didn't notice.

"Unfortunately," the man said, apologetic, "there isn't much I can do for you. I will, of course, continue visiting to check up on your progress."

His eyes probed Harry's searchingly, and for a second, Harry thought the man was going to say something else. But the moment passed, and Charles turned away. He seemed hesitant, almost disconcerted.

Clearing his throat, he offered Harry a smile. "Good luck in the future, Harry."

Harry nodded mutely, watching as Charles walked out the door.

Later, Nurse Shelley found him staring blankly into an unfinished bowl of soup. "Didn't eat all your food, hm? A lot of people are going hungry out there, you know."

Contrite, Harry's gaze snapped up to meet hers. "Sorry. I lost my appetite."

"And why is that?" she asked as she led him away.

Harry mumbled something incoherent, and much to his relief, she didn't pry. Back in the original wing, Dr. Richards was awaiting him, ready to share the results of Harry's exams: excepting the amnesia, he was normal in every way. When Dr. Richards finished speaking, Harry couldn't help but ask whether Charles Potter had mentioned anything else.

The doctor mistook Harry's concern for displeasure over the diagnosis. "I'm sorry, but I doubt Mr. Potter has misdiagnosed you. He's one of our few mind experts—it's truly a pity he doesn't work here full time."

The last part was said musingly, as though to himself.

"Where else does he work?" asked Harry.

"Oh, another institution... I can never remember its name." With that, Dr. Richards patted him on the shoulder and left.

Harry didn't sleep well that night. He had a nightmare about the battle. Everyone around him was dying in agony, screaming as the Ministry atrium shifted into the graveyard. Harry was tied down, nearly drowned in a pool of his own blood, with Nagini slithering around him, taunting him gleefully. He spat at her and woke up speaking Parseltongue.

Not long afterward, Dr. Richards arrived. In the gray morning light, Harry could see a line of worry in his brow.

When the doctor opened his mouth to speak, he looked as if he wanted to ask Harry something but instead said, "We've found a place for you to stay."

Harry nodded for him to continue.

"It's an orphanage in London."

"An orphanage?" That wasn't unexpected. He had no one here, after all.

"Yes, one that's managed by a lady named Mrs. Cole. It's called Wool's."

Harry didn't know whether to laugh or to cry.

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**F.A.Q.**

_Will you put up the chapters of the old Juxtaposition_? I appreciate the polite inquiries but no. It was taken down for a reason.

_Will this plot follow the old one?_ Again, no. It was originally intended to follow the old one, but it didn't work out that way.

_Why not write this in a new entry? _Because so many people have this one on alert, I thought it'd be simpler this way. Looking back, I realize I could've done things differently.

_What happened to the placeholder chapters? _Technically, they violated TOS. And since my story was already deleted once, I didn't want to give fanfic admin another reason to do that.

_Pairings?_ No.

_How often will you update? _It will be time, once it is time.

Thank you.


	2. Chapter 2

_With gratitude and appreciation to _May Eve _for her eager help and _Fire From Above _for her persistent inquiries and thoughtfulness_. _This chapter could not have been possible without either of their betaing._

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Chapter Two

Wedged between a wall and a storage closet door, Tom listened quietly as Mrs. Cole conferred with the doctor. The other kids wouldn't have dared to eavesdrop on the matron, but Tom was different, an expert at not being caught. When he was younger, he'd spent hours reading stolen books under the front stoop, and the kids who played in the courtyard had never discovered him there. It had been his sanctuary until the incident with little Sarah; Mrs. Cole had relocated him to a separate room, then, and he'd no longer needed to sneak away for privacy.

But he never forgot the skills he'd honed, and they proved handy when, passing Mrs. Cole's office, he'd overheard her talking to the doctor. Afraid that they'd hired another person to come _look _at him, to see if _the strange boy_ belonged in an asylum, he'd hidden to listen.

He'd soon discovered, though, that the conversation was not about him.

They were discussing another boy, a new orphan, and Tom only stayed to satisfy his curiosity. There was a nervous quaver in Mrs. Cole's voice that had, until now, been reserved solely for Tom.

"Are—are you sure, Dr. Richards?" Her voice was strangled. "How did you...?"

"I heard it when I went to wake him. It certainly sounded like a snake's hissing, but I'm sure you have nothing to worry about. In fact, had you not asked if there was anything _strange _about Harry, I would've dismissed it," reassured the man.

"Of course, nothing to worry about," Mrs. Cole echoed weakly. "Probably just like sleep talking."

"Yes, like sleep talking."

Dr. Richards was eager to change the topic, but Tom stopped listening. His mind raced as it pieced together the puzzle. Harry. A new boy who was strange, strange enough to worry Mrs. Cole. A new boy who _hissed _in his sleep.

Although Tom tried not to jump to conclusions, he couldn't help but think of his own abilities: The first time he'd talked to a tiny garden snake, he'd thought he was going mad. He remembered fearing that they'd put him into a straightjacket, lock him up and forget him. Mrs. Cole had already wanted to institutionalize him, so he'd hid the skill as he'd hid his many trophies. They would never catch him... though he couldn't say the same for Harry.

Footsteps jolted Tom from his thoughts. Peering through the thin crack between the door hinges, he spied two figures entering Mrs. Cole's office. One belonged to Maria, a tall freckled girl who had an air of self-importance combined with a tendency to look down her nose at the younger children. The other was slim and dark-haired, a stranger.

Mrs. Cole greeted them over-enthusiastically, as if to mask her earlier reservations. "You're back! Were you thorough in the tour, Maria? After all, Harry will be living here!"

"Yes, Mrs. Cole," Maria declared proudly. "I showed him the entire orphanage, top to bottom."

"Good, I can always trust you—" Tom suspected Maria was preening. "Can you do one more favor for me, dear?"

"Anything, Mrs. Cole."

"Fetch Tom Riddle, will you? I need to speak with him about his new roommate."

For a moment, Tom stopped breathing altogether. Harry would be staying with _him? _Hadn't Mrs. Cole learned not to place other kids with Tom? He exhaled slowly, watching Maria hasten out on her errand. She was completely gone by the time he exited his hiding place, with the decision to reveal himself. He rapped firmly on Mrs. Cole's door and, without waiting for a response, pushed past the grainy wood, improvising.

"Mrs. Cole, I wanted to—"

"Tom Riddle! Just the person I needed."

"Yes, Mrs. Cole?" Feigning wide-eyed surprise, Tom surveyed the scene. Two rickety chairs were pulled opposite the woman's desk, and within them sat a chubby man and a small boy. Harry.

"I want you to meet Harry Pennington." Mrs. Cole gestured at the boy with her weathered hands. "He'll be rooming with you from now on."

_If he isn't scared off in a week._

"Harry, meet Tom Riddle," the woman continued, addressing the new orphan.

Tom watched Harry's reaction carefully: Quick green eyes glanced briefly in his direction before darting away.

Then, voice soft, Harry replied dutifully, "Hello, Tom."

"Hello," Tom said.

"Why don't you show Harry to your room now?" It wasn't really a question. "I'm sure he's very tired. It's getting late, after all. The helpers should have moved a sleeping bag into your room, and tomorrow they'll be bringing a bed."

_So they expected the arrangement to be permanent_, thought Tom. He said nothing as Harry gathered a brown bag from beside his chair. Judging by its size, he didn't have many belongings.

Harry bade the doctor farewell, receiving the clap to his shoulders with a strained smile, and followed Tom out the door. The hall's sudden emptiness seemed to amplify the silence, but Tom was content to leave it that way. Through the corner of his eye, he took the opportunity to examine his new roommate in detail. Harry was staring straight ahead, his face blank. He appeared almost _studious _in the way he avoided looking at Tom.

But why?

He wasn't afraid; that much Tom was sure of. Tom knew fear, and the other boy displayed none of its signs. Harry's posture was too relaxed, his strides too confident. In fact, the composure he projected almost made him seem older. The air was incongruous with his small build. He looked like a fast runner. Maybe he'd been chased by bullies, mused Tom.

They reached the bottom of the stairs to see a gangly girl occupying the landing above them.

"Tom!" It was Maria, who was beginning to descend the steps. "I've been looking for you! Mrs. Cole needs—"

"I know," Tom cut her off, knowing that she hated being interrupted.

With a last stride, she planted herself in front of them, arms akimbo and eyebrows furrowed, white shoes melding easily into the white-tiled floor. "What did she tell you?"

Nothing interesting, but Tom wasn't ready to let the opportunity pass. He suppressed a smirk. "I don't know if I'm allowed to say."

"But—" Her mind was obviously racing; she was much too easy to read. "But Mrs. Cole said she just needed to talk to you about a new roommate."

Tom shrugged, happily exploiting Maria's incessant need to pry.

"Was that all?" the older girl demanded.

Tom shrugged again. "It's getting late, so if you'll excuse us..." He shouldered past her, expecting Harry to follow. As they scaled the stairs, he pointedly ignored Maria's loud objections and glared defiantly at Harry, warning the other boy not to challenge his words. To his surprise, Harry maintained a complacent silence.

At the second floor landing, Tom turned left and gestured at a door. "That room's mine."

He led the way inside and turned on the lamp. Its prompt glow casted shadows onto the bare walls and sparse furnishings. Scanning quickly, Tom realized the room looked different from when he had left it. His pillowcase appeared rumpled, as if it had been lifted up and searched beneath. His wardrobe's left leg stood further back than normal, as if it had been pushed there accidentally by clumsy feet. And, most obviously, someone had been in the room to set up a sleeping bag.

That someone must also have sifted through Tom's stuff, and it could only have been one of Mrs. Cole's helpers.

Tom felt himself grow cold with rage. Completely forgetting Harry's presence, he strode to his wardrobe and threw open its doors. On the top shelf, his box of treasures sat innocuously, locked and untouched, obscured by a stack of clothes. At the bottom, his pile of worn books remained undisturbed as well.

Except...

Heart pounding, he sank to his knees, methodically separating the short novels, the longer texts, the...

It wasn't there.

More frantically now, he rearranged them one by one, searching carefully for a battered brown notebook.

_It wasn't there_.

Who could have—?

Tom took a deep breath, gathering his wits. Zenaide, his snake, would have been hiding in the room when the culprit came. He turned around to call for her. He didn't expect to see her coiled on the ground, facing down Harry, whose presence Tom only belatedly registered.

"_Finally noticcced me, Tom?"_ hissed the snake. "_Who isss thisss friend you bring? He smellsss like one of usss."_

This was spectacularly bad timing. It felt like problems were bombarding him all at once, and he couldn't solve them fast enough. First an unwanted roommate, then a thief, and now unwelcome questions. And what did Zenaide mean by "_he smells like one of us"_?

An insidious voice in his head blamed Harry for the troubles. If the other boy hadn't shown up, Tom's privacy would've remained intact. No one would've entered his room. His life would've gone on like normal. As these thoughts built on one another, Tom sensed his powers brewing inside him. He would lash out soon if he didn't remain levelheaded.

Exhaling sharply, he forced himself to relax and think logically. His notebook had definitely been stolen by someone already aware of its existence, someone who had planned to steal it beforehand. The sleeping bag had probably been an excuse to enter Tom's room. The thief must have thought that, since Tom would be anticipating someone's presence, he would not have suspected a theft if things were amiss in his room. At the moment, there was nothing he could do. He took a calming breath and shut his eyes briefly. When he opened them again, he found himself on the receiving end of Harry's stare. For the first time, Harry was looking directly at Tom, and it was unexpectedly disconcerting.

Tom felt as if Harry could see inside him.

"Did you lose something?" asked Harry eventually.

"What?" Tom blinked, having expected an inquiry about his snake or even a question like, "What were you doing?" He hadn't supposed that Harry would interpret his actions so well.

"It looked like you were searching for something." Harry seemed intent on the subject, disregarding Zenaide.

"It's none of your business." Tom's answer was purposefully indirect. His instincts told him that Harry would not be easily deceived. He would have to drive Harry out as soon as possible, especially if the other boy were nosy.

Surprisingly, Harry let the matter drop. "So the snake—yours?"

Tom admitted that it was, stamping down the reflexive urge to lie. Mrs. Cole didn't allow pets, but a fib would have required too much maintenance. Then another thought struck him: "What made you think that?"

Harry shrugged. "I figured it was too big to get in without anyone noticing. And you don't seem scared of it."

"Neither do you," Tom pointed out.

They measured each other for a moment, before Harry simply said, "I guess I'm not." He turned his back on Tom and, without another word, headed for the sleeping bag. Their conversation had come to an end.

. . .

Through the slits in the curtains, pale moonlight spilled onto Tom's pillow. It was late. Harry was asleep at last, his breathing even, and Tom was now free to do as he pleased. He sat up slowly, careful not to rouse the other boy. Zenaide, who had been curled around Tom's arm until now, unwound herself with a liquid motion.

"_You never anssswered my quessstion," _she accused softly. "_I asssked about your new friend."_

Tom scowled. "_He isn't my friend."_

"_But you two are ssso much alike."_ This was the second time that Zenaide had referenced Tom and Harry's supposed similarities, and Tom wanted an explanation.

"_What are you talking about?"_

"_Can't you sssee it? Can't you senssse it?"_

Tom's frown grew more pronounced. "_No. What is 'it'?"_

"_Sssilly Tom. 'It' isss right in front of you. Jussst open your eyesss."_

"_You aren't making any sense!"_

Zenaide was silent, scrutinizing Tom through yellow eyes. At length, she changed the subject. "_Do you want to know who came into your room tonight?"_

Evidently, Tom wouldn't be extracting any answers from her just now. Forcing himself to relax, he settled on biding his time. Zenaide wasn't like the humans. Her will wasn't easily bent, but it would be fine. Tom had ways to make her talk—later. "_Yes."_

She chortled, little hisses escaping past her fangs. "_There were two of them. Young, but older than you. Both male."_

Two? Tom berated himself for not thinking of that possibility. They had to be helpers, as Tom had originally surmised. They must have taken his notebook to show to Mrs. Cole.

A shiver ran down his spine. "_Tell me what they looked like."_

"_One had large handsss and loud feet. The other wasss short and too ssskinny."_

Snakes had trouble seeing in color, so Tom was reduced to grappling with the vague descriptions. He concluded that "large hands and loud feet" applied to a boy, Jacob, who was known for his aggressiveness. **"**Short and skinny" seemed reasonable for a young cook named Stefano.

"_Which one of them took my notebook?"_

"_They were both looking at it."_

Tom's fists clenched, his nostrils flaring. A second later, he knew both helpers would regret stealing from him. He ignored the inner voice saying that he needed a plan. He didn't have time for a plan. Tom stood abruptly and stole to the door. There, he turned around to survey the room coolly. Harry was still asleep, and Tom suddenly recalled Mrs. Cole's uneasy words:

"_Of course, nothing to worry about... Probably just like sleep talking."_

Quietly, Tom addressed Zenaide, "_Watch Harry tonight. See if he does anything strange in his sleep."_

The snake grumbled something about needing to rest, but Tom knew that she would comply. He slipped out of the room and into the empty corridor.

He'd always enjoyed wandering through the orphanage at night. In the dark, it took on a nondescript quality that allowed him to imagine he were elsewhere. Tonight was different though. He had work to do.

Live-in helpers lodged in rooms that were located on the third floor. A duo was assigned to each room, and there were five rooms in total. The first two that Tom checked held female staff. Light snores issued from the third, and when Tom peeked in, he saw that one of the occupants was Stefano, the other a fellow cook named David.

This was a crucial part. If Tom could enter without waking them, then the battle would be half won. Slowly, excruciatingly so, Tom pushed open the door by gradual degrees. Not daring to breathe, he crept inside on the balls of his feet. His senses seemed enhanced, his movements sounding too loud in his own ears. But Stefano and David remained asleep.

He stopped beside Stefano's bed, crouching down to inspect the surroundings, relying on the few bars of moonlight that slanted from the window. It wasn't ideal, but the floor under Stefano's bed appeared empty, and it didn't look like there was anything beneath his pillow either. The dresser and the space beneath his mattresses were the only other hiding places, and Tom hoped the notebook would be in the former.

Of course, he knew that his notebook might not even be in this room _or _Jacob's room. It might already be with Mrs. Cole, if she'd been the one to assign the task. But that thought didn't deter Tom. To recover his possession, he would have to start somewhere.

The top drawer was nearly empty, except for a few writing utensils and a pair of eyeglasses. To be thorough, Tom picked up each item and searched beneath it, but as expected, his book was nowhere in sight. He replaced everything carefully and then slid the drawer shut.

Stooping lower, he moved onto the middle drawer. It was heavier, harder to pull open. Inside, creased undergarments were piled haphazardly, and Tom wrinkled his nose in distaste. One by one, he sifted through the clothes, until a solid brown rectangle caught his eye. He couldn't believe his luck. His notebook was right there, resting innocently under the socks. Tom reached eagerly for it, and in his haste, his knee collided against the bottom drawer.

A dull _bang _resounded through the room, and David's snoring ceased.

Cursing mentally, Tom shut the drawer quickly, then cast around for a hiding place. His eyes landed on the space under the bed, and holding his breath, he scrambled into it. A second slower, and he would've been caught.

David's muffled voice soon reached Tom's ears: "Stefano?"

Tom heard a hiccup, followed by a slurred, "Mm – _wha?"_

"Stefano!" A _click, _and then the room was flooded by light.

"'S the matter, David?"

"Did you hear that? I thought I saw..."

"Saw what?"

"A—a small animal or a person or... something." With a thump, David dropped his bare feet to the ground. Dread coursed through Tom. Maybe he hadn't been as quick as he'd thought.

Above him, Stefano was saying, "You were prob'ly just dreaming it."

Tom prayed that David would accept the excuse, but the cook said, "Let me just check under your bed."

"Sure, go 'head. I'm goin' back to sleep."

Tom felt as if he were suffocating, panic eating at his gut. Helpless, he watched as David's legs approached. Now what? He couldn't be discovered. He needed to stop David from coming any closer. He needed...

He needed a distraction.

Suddenly knowing what to do, Tom focused his entire mind on one thought and _willed_. Power ripped through his body, tearing out into the room. There was a crash, and then everything plunged into darkness.

"What just happened?" demanded David, a note of fear in his voice.

"Calm down. The clock on the wall fell and hit the light. That's all." Stefano sounded more awake now, albeit reluctantly so.

David's feet started to retreat. "Oh, I—"

"Watch out! There's glass on the floor." There was a _whoosh, _like that of curtains being opened. Then moonlight illuminated the wooden floorboards, revealing jagged shards near David's bed.

Swearing fluently, David made an about-face and headed toward the door. "I'll have to clean that up now."

The springs above Tom creaked pointedly as Stefano moved out of the bed. "Wait for me. I'm gonna see if I can find some candles... or maybe another lamp."

Moments later, Tom was alone in the room. He rolled out from under the bed, his limbs feeling much heavier than before. He didn't know when the cooks would return, but he knew he had to move fast. Intent, he returned to the dresser, reclaiming his possession and exiting promptly.

His thoughts were Stefano discovered that the notebook was missing, he'd remember the commotion that Tom had made. It would provide solid evidence for Stefano to suspect that someone had been in his quarters, and logically, Stefano's next step would be to suspect Tom. He couldn't accuse Tom, however, without admitting that he'd stolen the boy's property.

Tom soon reached his room, thankfully unhindered. Ready to crash into bed, he stumbled inside and toward his half of the room. Then the lamp flicked on.

He turned around slowly.

"Where were you?" Harry was standing up, his sharp gaze boring into Tom.

Though his nerves were already frayed, Tom managed a lie. "Just taking a walk. I couldn't sleep."

Harry's eyes narrowed. "Is there something in your hand?"

Fighting the automatic urge to shield his notebook—the action would only arouse more suspicion—Tom said, "That's none of your business."

Harry looked thoughtful for a long moment before asking, "It's what you were looking for earlier, isn't it?"

"I said, that's _none of your business_. Go back to sleep."

Another long moment passed, before Harry shrugged. "Fine. G'night."

Harry turned the light off, and Tom fumbled through the darkness to sit on his bed. He knew this wasn't over yet. Intuition told him that Harry wouldn't be so quick to dismiss the matter, and Tom's stomach twisted unpleasantly.

A cool, scaly form slithered up his right arm, and when he looked down, Zenaide shimmered up at him.

In a barely audible murmur, much too softly for Harry to hear, Zenaide whispered into Tom's ear, "_I lissstened to the boy, as you'd asssked. You'll be very interesssted to hear what I learned_."


	3. Chapter 3

_Thanks to the fab_ iamlordmoldyshorts_ for the beta. Remaining mistakes are mine. Also, portions in the middle were lifted from HBP; they belong to JK Rowling._

* * *

Chapter Three

When Harry awoke, Tom was already gone. The room looked less bleak in the morning light but also more vacant. From the cocoon of his sleeping bag, Harry had a close-up of the scuffed floor. Tom's snake was curled on it, less than a meter away, and her yellow eyes followed Harry as he sat up. He stared back warily. He'd never been afraid of snakes, but this one was Tom's. If anything, Harry had learned never to underestimate his enemies.

Was Tom really the enemy, though? It was already becoming harder for Harry to reconcile Tom Riddle with Lord Voldemort. Tom was only eleven, not the snake-faced monster that had killed Harry's parents, nor the sinister sixteen-year-old who had lured Ginny into the Chamber of Secrets. This Tom hadn't killed yet. He still had a soul.

The emotions that he'd displayed the night before had been very human, and they'd made Harry wonder why the notebook was so important. Fortunately, from what Harry had glimpsed of it, he knew it wasn't the one destined to become a Horcrux.

"_It seemsss you have questionsss. I'll anssswer them if you'll anssswer mine."_

Harry jerked back, staring at the snake with surprise. She gazed back steadily, her forked tongue flicking in the air. Before Harry could decide whether to feign incomprehension, she continued.

"_Don't pretend you can't underssstand me. I know very well that you can."_

What were the snake's intentions?

The Gryffindor in Harry encouraged him to take a leap of faith and answer the snake, but a more cautious voice told him not to act rashly, especially when he didn't have the upper hand. _Think logically_, Hermione would say if she were here (and thank Merlin she wasn't).

Harry weighed his options. Responding meant getting answers, perhaps even an insider's view on Tom, but it also meant fielding questions from her, and most likely from Tom too. For now, he decided, silence would be best.

He shed the sleeping bag, keeping a careful watch on the snake until he was at the door. She chuckled as he left.

"_We both know that your curiosssity will win in the end. Until then, I can wait._"

The words left him with an unpleasant aftertaste, which lingered as he trekked toward the dining room. Zenaide seemed to know too much about him, despite his recent arrival.

At the bottom of the stairs, Harry glanced left and right, realizing he'd forgotten Maria's directions.

Suddenly, a voice called, "Hey! Wait up!"

Harry scarcely had time to react before someone thundered down the steps and grabbed him by the shoulders.

The voice was now in his ears. "We know what you did last night, Riddle."

Surprised, Harry ducked out of the grasp and turned around. "I'm—"

"Jacob!" Another person was hurrying down toward them. "You weren't supposed to—" Catching sight of Harry, he stopped abruptly. "You aren't Riddle."

Harry's surprise was fading, confusion taking its place. They had thought he was Tom, and at least one of them had planned a confrontation with him. Harry's stomach roiled uncomfortably as they examined him.

"Yeah, I'd thought he was Riddle too."

At Jacob's voice, the second man seemed to realize he was staring. "Sorry, you must be new. I'm Stefano, one of the cooks."

Stefano, like Jacob, looked barely out of his teens. His scruffy, dark hair topped a broad forehead, which appeared disproportionately wide compared to the rest of his body.

"Harry," the boy responded. He shook Stefano's proffered hand, aware that Jacob was regarding them both with impatience.

"You're the one rooming with Riddle, aren't you?" Not waiting for a response, Jacob barreled on, "Did he leave the room last night? Around midnight or so?"

Harry looked at the man, and slowly shook his head.

"You see?" Stefano said to Jacob, gripping him by the arm, "We need to talk about this before you start making accusations."

Harry was pretty sure that Stefano meant for the words to be private. Jacob didn't seem to care. His eyes were flashing, his hands curled into fists, but Stefano managed to steer him past Harry.

Before rounding the corner, the cook looked back at the boy. "Sorry he bothered you. I'll see you around."

Moments later, they vanished into a room down the left hall, a muttered argument trailing after them. Harry stood frozen on the steps where they'd left him.

Zenaide was right when she'd said Harry wouldn't be able to resist his curiosity. As quietly as he could, he followed Stefano and Jacob, pausing when he was close enough to hear their conversation. There weren't many nearby places to hide; he feared someone would discover him, though he was willing to take the risk. In any case, he could always dive for the nearest room.

"—bad idea all along," Stefano was saying. "Mrs. Cole shouldn't have asked us to take it in the first place."

"But she was right about it, wasn't she? You saw what was written in it. Riddle clearly belongs in a madhouse."

"It wasn't—" Stefano sighed, exasperated. "Look, it's gone now."

"And we know who took it!"

"We don't have any proof."

"The new boy—"

"Said he didn't see Riddle leaving the room," Stefano interrupted.

"Yeah, but for all we know, Riddle could've threatened him, or he could've been asleep the entire time."

Harry was so absorbed that he didn't sense the person behind him until it was too late. A hand covered his mouth, and he recoiled in shock. Craning his neck sideways, he found himself eye-to-eye with Tom Riddle. The other boy's gaze was fierce as he led Harry down the hall, pulling him into an empty room.

"What were you doing?" Tom demanded and, when Harry didn't answer, said, "So you agree with them, do you? That I belong in a madhouse?" If possible, Tom's eyes grew even darker, angrier. "Because if I do, then you do too!"

The outburst surprised Harry, but he recovered enough to reassure Tom that neither of them belonged in a madhouse.

Tom opened his mouth, then closed it, studying Harry suspiciously. "What are you trying to do? What do you want from me?"

Harry frowned. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Stop playing dumb. I heard them in there. You lied to them. You told them I was in the room the entire night. Why?"

Harry didn't know what to say. He wasn't sure he knew the reason himself.

Tom decided to try a different tactic. "I know your secret."

And with that, Harry's heart was suddenly in his throat. "What?" How could Tom possibly have known?

"My snake heard you sleep-talking last night," said Tom smugly. "You can talk to snakes."

It took a moment for Harry to understand, but once he did, his relief was so strong that he felt he could collapse. Tom didn't know he was from the future yet, and that was all that mattered. "So what?"

Tom paused, amazed. "You don't care that I know? Aren't you afraid they'll take you away, lock you up?"

Harry shook his head. "Not when you can talk to snakes too. Besides, no one would believe you if you said anything."

Tom was still incredulous. "How can you not care? You're acting as if it's normal! As if I'm normal!"

Harry felt an unexpected pang of sympathy for Tom. It seemed the boy had become accustomed to being treated as a 'freak', just as Harry had.

"What have you done to deserve otherwise?" Harry asked at last.

Tom stared at him, eyes glittering with something Harry couldn't place, and seemed to come to a decision. "I can make things happen with my mind. I can make people regret messing with me."

Harry frowned, Tom's admission a reminder of the suffering he would cause, and as quickly as it'd come, Harry's sympathy dissipated. Against his better judgment, Harry met Tom's gaze squarely in challenge. "You aren't the only one."

Tom's eyes narrowed. Without another word, he turned and stalked out of the room. Harry was left alone.

. . .

After fumbling his way to the dining room, Harry took his breakfast at an empty back table, not expecting to interact with anyone. To his surprise, halfway through his meal, a girl approached to introduce herself as Annie. She smiled with dimples and asked if Harry wanted to come out to play later.

"David has a new ball, and we need another person on our team."

Harry hesitated. Agreeing would be the polite answer, but he was suddenly aware that he knew nothing about eleven-year-olds in the late thirties. He didn't want to make a mistake, and he especially didn't want to explain one away.

He was finally saved from responding by Maria, the gangly girl who'd shown him around yesterday.

"There you are," she said, walking up to Harry while ignoring Annie's presence. "You need to go back to your room. There's a man here who wants to speak to you and Riddle."

Harry frowned. "Why?"

"I dunno. He claims to be a professor." She peered closely at the boy. "Are you okay?"

Harry blinked before nodding rapidly. "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine."

"If you say so." Maria shrugged and left.

"Who d'you reckon it is?" asked Annie, once the older girl was gone.

"I'm not sure." He didn't dare think who it might be, though the knowledge loomed in the back of his head. Gulping down the last bites of food, he said goodbye to Annie and started back up to his room. Outside the door, he paused, listening to the voices floating out.

"Who are you?" Tom Riddle was asking.

"I have told you. My name is Professor Dumbledore and I work at a school called Hogwarts."

The rest of Dumbledore's words washed over Harry, a dim smear of sound in his ears as he suddenly became very aware of his own breathing. He wanted nothing more than to pitch forward—let the wall take his weight—and he couldn't decide between staying where he was or entering the room. The choice was decided for him when he could hear Dumbledore again.

"I will tell you everything you need to know, but I can't continue until your roommate joins us."

It was useless to delay the inevitable. Harry braced himself and, with a deep breath, reached forward, pushing the door open to step inside. There sat Dumbledore in his plum velvet suit and Tom in his orphanage garb, just as Harry had expected. Despite being prepared for it, he still felt as though punched in the gut.

"You must be Harry Pennington." Dumbledore stood, reaching forward to offer his hand. Harry hesitated only briefly before shaking it, and he counted that as a success.

"As I was telling Tom," continued Dumbledore, seating himself, "I am Professor Dumbledore. Allow me to tell you about the school I work at—"

"_School," _sneered Tom. "You can't kid me! The asylum, that's where you're from, isn't it?"

Harry watched faintly, silent, as the scene unraveled before him. It almost seemed that he was back in Dumbledore's Pensieve sixth year. The only difference was that when Dumbledore addressed Tom's concerns, he also glanced toward Harry, who had moved to perch on the windowsill by the wardrobe.

Tom was arguing vociferously now, Dumbledore attempting to appease him:

"I know that you are not mad. Hogwarts is not a school for mad people. It is a school of magic."

The abrupt silence was thick. Tom's gaze flicked between Harry and Dumbledore. "It's... it's magic, what I can do?"

"That's right. Magic is what both of you can do."

"And you can do it too?"

"Yes."

"Prove it," Tom commanded. "Tell the truth."

Years of alienation, and this was the result, thought Harry, feeling ill as Dumbledore chastised Tom: "If, as I take it, you are accepting your place at Hogwarts—"

"Of course I am!"

"Then you will address me as 'Professor' or 'sir'."

The boy's expression morphed, icy for a fleeting moment. But when his face cleared, his tone was impossibly polite. "I'm sorry, sir. I meant—please, Professor, could you show me—?"

Dumbledore raised his wand, and at the sight, Harry's heart began hammering. Suddenly he saw himself back in the Ministry atrium, dodging and fighting to survive. He sensed Dumbledore's spell and everything seemed to slow. He couldn't breathe. All he could hear was a rushing in his ears, and he could think of nothing but defending himself.

He deflected instinctively when the spell came, before returning to awareness just as the wall opposite burst into flames. Tom and Dumbledore were staring at him. Harry blinked.

"I'm sorry," he said hurriedly, glancing at the wardrobe beside him. He remembered now that it was the intended target. "I don't know what came over me."

Dumbledore recovered first, dousing the fire to reveal an undamaged wall. "It wasn't your fault. I should have warned you."

The way Harry was being studied unnerved him.

Dumbledore continued to regard Harry with an unreadable look as he said, "May I ask who your parents were?"

Harry swallowed. "I don't remember, sir. The doctors say I have amnesia."

From the corner of his eye, he noticed Tom's flash of surprise and remembered that he'd never told the other boy.

Dumbledore appeared contemplative. "There are methods to determine one's lineage. However, that is a matter for another day." He reached into his suit pocket and drew out two envelopes. "In these, you will find your train ticket and your list of equipment."

"But we haven't got any money," Tom spoke for the first time since Harry's outburst of magic.

"That is easily remedied. There is a fund at Hogwarts for those who require assistance to buy books and robes. Though you may have to buy some of them secondhand, I'll be there to help you find whatever you need."

"You'll be coming with us?" asked Tom.

"Certainly, if you—"

"I don't need you. I'm used to doing things for myself. I go around London on my own all the time."

"What about you, Harry?"

Harry paused, thinking, and then said he would be fine on his own. Dumbledore nodded, giving them the instructions to Diagon Alley, and then stood.

"I'll see you in September, boys." Dumbledore offered to shake their hands again, and once more Harry felt disconcerted, pinned beneath the man's scrutiny. He didn't realize until after Dumbledore left that Tom's treasure box hadn't been discovered—and Tom hadn't made a mention of Parseltongue. With Harry here, it seemed the past was already turning out differently.

He tore his mind away from the implications when he heard Tom get up and head for the door.

"Where are you going?"

Tom cast him a defensive look. "Diagon Alley. Got a problem with that?"

He left before Harry could answer. For a split second, Harry stared after him, then leapt up and grabbed his Hogwarts envelopes, racing out to follow Tom.

. . .

Though Harry had traveled through the city after being discharged from the hospital, it was his first time on the streets. This London was like a dream, familiar, fitting yet strange. It was less polished, and everywhere Harry looked, the cars, buildings and people appeared painfully outdated. Girls in summer dresses, men in hats; a whir of activity. Harry was reminded of a historic attraction where the setting was well planned and the actors wore old-fashioned clothes, pretending to be from another era. But none of this was pretend. Surreal as it may have been, it was now Harry's reality.

He kept a block's distance between himself and Tom, remaining hidden, and arrived at the Leaky Cauldron to find the wizarding world largely unchanged. Sixty years in the past, and the wizards and witches were still dressed the same. Their world—his world—had remained seemingly static. He even recognized most of the stores. As he passed Quality Quidditch he paused to examine the brooms on display. He felt eleven all over again, discovering the wonderful world of magic.

A large family jostled by, and Harry saw, from the corner of his eye, a sea of blazing red. The Weasleys—they had to be. He couldn't help but stare.

"Come along now, Lucy," the mother was clucking at a little girl.

"Yeah, Luce, don't get lost now," said one of her brothers.

The girl, Lucy, scowled and said nothing.

Memories of another Weasley generation welled up in Harry, unbidden, and he fought to swallow a lump. When he finally managed to look away, he realized that he'd lost sight of Tom.

He frowned, scanning the crowds, but Tom was nowhere in sight. He started forward slowly through the streams of people, searching for a familiar head of black hair. After a few minutes, he started to worry. Tom could be anywhere by now, and without him, Harry wasn't sure he'd be able to find his way back to the orphanage. Besides, Harry had wanted to keep an eye out for the boy.

Then abruptly he felt a hand clamp down on his arm, and when he glanced up, Tom was glowering at him.

"I know you followed me. I'm not stupid."

Harry stared, shaking his head before shaking off his surprise, taking Tom's presence in stride. "I know you aren't."

When Tom continued to glower, Harry offered with a shrug: "I wasn't going to be able to find this place on my own, and I didn't think you'd want me with you, so I followed you."

Honesty, it seemed, was the way to stop Tom in his tracks. The boy looked at Harry wordlessly for a long moment and then huffed. With just a little less malice, he said, "Fine, c'mon then."

Surprised at the concession, Harry trailed after Tom as Tom led them to the nearest apothecary. The witch who ran it was eager to assist them, and they left with a cauldron each, along with a menagerie of basic potions supplies. From there, they gathered their materials meticulously, entering and exiting two bookstores and a secondhand clothes store. Whenever Harry glanced at Tom, he was struck by how much Tom reminded him of himself. At age eleven, Diagon Alley had been the most amazing experience of Harry's life. It was clear Tom was quietly awed too, and the boy didn't even try to hide it—much.

They were just leaving a miscellaneous supply store when Harry heard the screams, and suddenly Diagon Alley was aflutter with motion. Harry looked up, to where many people were pointing fearfully. The source of the danger, it seemed, was a group of creatures descending rapidly from the sky. Harry had no name for them.

They swarmed, a glittering flock of them, half serpent, half dragon, screeching through the air. They breathed fire at the buildings, bowled over people, knocked tiles and shingles loose and shattered windows with their tails and claws. Around Harry, Diagon Alley was emptying quickly, its patrons diving for cover in shops and alleyways. He scrambled to follow but realized, as he swam through the panicked masses, that Tom wasn't with him. He looked back and spotted the boy alone in the middle of the main street, the swirling creatures almost upon him.

"Tom!" Harry yelled. "Tom, get back!"

He couldn't see Tom's face. All he could see was the boy's frozen silhouette, framed in a thousand gilded scales.

"Tom!"

Still no movement from Tom. Cursing, Harry glanced about him. Even now, there were fewer people around than there were a moment before, both adults and children alike seeking shelter. No one was paying him or Tom any mind, entirely focused on his or her own safety.

The creatures were loud, hissing and spitting. Tom was still alone and motionless. Harry grimaced, swore, and dived back into the street, ignoring the shouted protests that followed him.

"Tom!"

The creatures—there must have been a dozen of them—circled like a magical maelstrom around Tom. Closer now, Harry could hear what they were hissing. It sounded like Parseltongue, but a strange variant thereof:

"_Stupid humans, stupid curses, stupid... loud... Why did the golden wizard force us here?"_

After a moment of shock, Harry realized the creatures were _disgruntled. _He had an absurd flashback to the snake in the zoo that had never been to Brazil.

"_Stop, please!_" Harry heard himself say in Parseltongue. To his astonishment, and to the astonishment of all those watching from the storefronts and windows, the creatures slowed. As one, they whirled on him, their snakelike eyes narrowed.

"_Who is this strange child who speaks our language?" _they whispered amongst themselves. "_Human child, man in disguise, what do you want?_"

Harry blinked. He cleared his throat. "_My friend—you have him surrounded. I just want to get him out_."

They were briefly silent, before hissing in a strange manner. At length, Harry parsed that they were laughing.

"_And why is that, strange man-child?_" one asked. It was of a magnificent green and gold.

After a moment, Harry settled for honesty: "_You are quite fearsome creatures. And I, we, don't want to be any trouble."_

"_But humans such as yourself have already made trouble for our kind... Your sentiment, though, is wishful thinking we both share. Tell me now, man-child, what do you know of magical enslavement?"_

The non sequitur made Harry pause. _"Er, nothing, I'm afraid."_

"_Creatures like us—we can be enslaved by wizardry, but ancient magic dictates that we can break the bond, if only we were to swear fealty to another. How do you feel, man-child, about receiving our loyalty?"_

"_Well, I, I—" _Harry didn't know what to say. He wasn't sure his brain had caught up yet. A week ago, back at the hospital, he hadn't thought his situation could become any more surreal. Now he was sure he'd been wrong.

The creatures were noiseless now, suspended gracefully in the air. The green-gold serpent spoke for them:

"_Never mind your feelings; we have decided. You, man-child, will have the honor of being our lord—_" It uttered something strange, foreign, and Harry gasped as white heat spread over his wrist. Looking down, he saw a glowing insignia wrapped around his skin but didn't have the time to study it, as the creature spoke once more. "_Call us in your time of need, but do not abuse the privilege. Goodbye, now."_

And they were gone.

Harry and Tom stood alone in the street. Catching sight of the other boy, Harry felt the world right itself a little, somehow.

"C'mon," he said to Tom, tugging him away.

Tom was staring at him with an unreadable expression, similar to the one Dumbledore had given earlier, and Harry found it difficult to meet his eyes. He pulled Tom into the first shop they reached. Inside, he realized it was Ollivander's. The wandmaker's shop was much more crowded than usual, from the refugees who had flocked inside, and Harry noticed that the wizards and witches were all staring at him.

Ducking his face, he steered Tom further into the back, away from the attention.

"This place sells wands," Harry muttered to Tom. "We should get ours now."

Tom nodded and said nothing. As if on cue, Ollivander appeared before them. He seemed taller than Harry remembered, sprightly, with brown hair unlike the white of his older self.

"Good morning," said the man, studying them intently. "We have had strange happenings this morning, haven't we? Well, we'll put that aside now. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Ollivander, the wandmaker."

The boys followed suit, and Harry saw that the man took note when Harry gave his name. For what reason, Harry didn't know, but Ollivander did comment on his remarkable likeness to the members of the Potter clan. Harry pretended ignorance.

"Well," said Ollivander, "who wants to go first?"

Harry and Tom traded a look. Then Harry nudged Tom forward. "Go on."

Harry watched as Ollivander gathered his measurements, examining Tom carefully, before hurrying to one of the shelves. He pulled out a number of rectangular boxes, giving his speech about the custom made wands as he went, and when he returned, he prompted Tom to give them a go.

The sixth wand that Tom picked up, yew and thirteen-and-a-half inches, lit up like a firecracker. It was the phoenix feather wand. Tom was absolutely delighted, smiling for the first time since Harry had met him. Harry tried not to stare, at either the wand or the boy.

It was his turn next. He went through even more wands than Tom did before Ollivander fixed him with a curious look. Silently, the man hurried to one of the shelves and pulled out another box.

"Try this one," he told Harry. "Eleven inches, holly, phoenix feather. Nice and supple."

Harry already knew the end results, but that didn't stop the rush of warmth he felt when he was reunited—or perhaps pre-united?—with his wand again. As soon as his fingers closed around it, red and gold sparks shot into the air, dancing ebulliently.

When they eventually dissipated, Harry was allowed an unobstructed view to a very familiar look on Ollivander's face. Except, this time, the look wasn't only directed at Harry.

"Curious, _very_ _curious_."

Tom frowned. "What is?"

"That you and your companion have been chosen by brother wands," Ollivander explained. "This is quite a rare phenomenon. For this to happen to two wizards in the same generation, at the same time no less, is unheard of."

"Is that a bad thing?" Tom was growing defensive.

"No, no! Far from it! I expect great things out of you two. Great things." Ollivander didn't elaborate further. As soon as they paid for the wands, depleting their funds significantly, Ollivander ushered them out of the store.

* * *

Thank you for reading. To be continued.


End file.
